


In The Beginning

by Elvendork



Series: Their Own Side [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the events of "Saturday", Aziraphale and Anthony have been "nigh-on inseparable for over four years". This is their first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The vast majority of this – up to and including most of the breakfast scene – was written before I was even officially assigned the prompt which ended up being filled with “Saturday”. The idea was just too tempting to resist. That does mean updates will not be this frequent in future though, I’m afraid. Since the plan is basically just to write as much about Aziraphale and Crowley at Hogwarts/in the Harry Potter Universe as I can, I don’t really have a set plot-per-story laid out. I’m just writing until I reach an appropriate break point, and I didn’t even decide what the break point for this one would be until literally the moment before I got to it.
> 
> On Sorting and naming: It took me an absolute _age_ to Sort them, and they must have changed five or six times between them before they settled down (usually swapping back and forth between the same two each time). In the end it was a discussion on tumblr, especially [this post](http://irisbleufic.tumblr.com/post/64475583800/weighing-in-on-potter-omens-for-fun), that decided me. Aziraphale’s surname comes from Pottermore; I found it on the Chocolate Frog Cards. He is a descendent of the inventor of the Sneakoscope.
> 
> I do not own either Harry Potter or Good Omens.
> 
> And lastly, a huge, huge thank you to my beta, prettybirdy979.

For most of the country, the first of September 1977 contains nothing particularly of note, in and of itself. It is a fortnight since the death of Elvis Presley and three months since the height of the Silver Jubilee celebrations in London. May of that year saw the debut appearance of what would eventually become one of the most successful movie franchises of all time, and in March five hundred and eighty three people were killed in a Jumbo jet collision on a runway in Tenerife.

September first is overcast and dull.

Aziraphale Stroulger has been waiting for this day for as long as he has been old enough to understand what it means. He is eleven years old. He is a wizard. He has never been more excited about anything in his life.

Both of his parents are still asleep when he wakes up. He dresses quickly and quietly and checks that his trunk is packed. He takes out his wand and stares at it, longing to be able to perform just one simple spell. Any spell. He puts it back, reluctantly, and slips downstairs for breakfast, which he eats as slowly as he can.

By the time he has finished, and washed his bowl, opened the curtains and straightened the pot of Floo powder on the mantelpiece three times, it is barely six o’clock. He returns to his room and tries to concentrate on re-reading his textbooks, but he is restless and checks the clock every few minutes, ready to scream with frustration as the hands creep round with what seems like infinite slowness.

In just five hours he will be on the train to school. Only five hours to go until the Hogwarts Express leaves King’s Cross and he is on his way…Just five hours, but a _whole five hours_. It seems like a lifetime. He starts pacing and going over spells in his head.

00000

Some two hundred miles away another eleven year old boy, also destined to start Hogwarts that day and – though neither of them can possibly know it yet – quickly become probably the best friend Aziraphale has ever had, is snoring loudly. His trunk has been packed by house elves and he won’t bother to check it before he leaves. He has not touched a single text book since his parents bought them. He does not think very much about what kinds of spells he would like to perform, or which class might be his favourite. He does not wake up until almost nine o’clock, and then only at his mother’s insistence. He dreams, but his dreams are a confused mess of images that fade away almost as soon as he opens his eyes.

It’s not that he isn’t excited. Every eleven year old witch or wizard in the country is excited, and most of them are terrified as well. It’s not that he doesn’t want eleven o’clock to arrive as fast as humanly possible, or that he is any less eager than Aziraphale to be on the train that will carry him far away from here for at least the next three and a half months. It’s just that if he has to wait another five hours for that train, Anthony J. Crowley would much prefer to spend the time doing something he enjoys, and there is little he enjoys as much as sleep.

00000

Aziraphale almost misses the train, though he arrives on the platform with plenty of time to spare. His heart is beating so hard it’s actually painful and his eyes are wide and shining with wonder. He forges ahead of his parents into the crowd and almost loses track of them, then has to put up with a ten minute lecture from his father on how to behave at school, and more specifically who and what to avoid. He hugs his mother and kisses her cheek, his smile by now rather forced, then genuinely tries to listen to the long list of warnings she gives him about looking after himself while away from home. His father musses his hair and gruffly tells him to keep in touch. His eyes look oddly wet. Aziraphale starts to move away, but his mother stops him, reaching out to straighten his tie with a sad smile. By the time she has finished his father is lecturing him again, mostly repeating things he has already said a thousand times before. Aziraphale doesn’t even try to hide it as he checks his watch, impatient to be on his way.

00000

Anthony is one of the first people onto the train, after the briefest goodbye to his parents that he could get away with. He deliberately chooses the very last compartment available, in the hope that no one else will think of sitting there, most especially his cousins. He is already constructing plans for avoiding them at school, though how he will manage that if he ends up in the same House as them he doesn’t know. Being away from home is all well and good, but really he is just exchanging one source of antagonism for another and it is only now that he is starting to fully appreciate the phrase “better the devil you know”.

00000

The train is already moving by the time Aziraphale manages to pull himself onto it by grabbing the hand of a red haired seventh year who smiles kindly at him and asks if he needs help finding a seat. He tells her no, thank you, and leans out of the window to wave at his parents until they are out of sight. Then he heaves an enormous sigh and begins to drag his trunk down the long corridor, pausing at every compartment door on the way to check for space.

He reaches the last compartment after the train has hit full speed, panting and red faced from the effort of pulling his trunk with him. He slides open the door, praying that there will be space –

‘Oh thank Merlin,’ he breathes, leaning against the door frame and closing his eyes briefly with relief. ‘Sorry – do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.’

The dark haired boy turns away from the window and surveys Aziraphale appraisingly for several seconds before gesturing vaguely to the opposite seat.

‘Go ahead,’ he replies. He turns back to the window and doesn’t speak as Aziraphale heaves his trunk into the luggage compartment, then flops onto the seat, fanning his cheeks with his hand.

‘I thought I was going to miss the train,’ says Aziraphale. ‘My parents were lecturing me – sorry, I’m Aziraphale. Aziraphale Stroulger.’ He holds out his hand, which the other boy raises an eyebrow at before taking warily.

‘Anthony,’ he replies. He doesn’t offer a last name, or any other information at all, and goes back to watching the scenery fly past the window in silence. Aziraphale tries several times to make conversation but never manages to actually get a word out. After ten minutes he has just resigned himself to spending the entire journey like this, when the boy speaks again without looking around.

‘Your parents are Aurors, aren’t they?’ he asks suddenly.

‘Most of my family are,’ Aziraphale replies, none too keenly.

‘Hmm,’ says Anthony.

‘What about yours?’ Aziraphale prompts after several more moments of silence.

‘What?’ Anthony looks around and blinks. His eyes are a very odd colour; Aziraphale can’t quite pin it down. They look almost golden. ‘Oh. No. No one in my family is an Auror.’ He says it with such obvious bitterness that Aziraphale decides not to press the subject. It’s hardly his favourite either, to be honest.

‘What House do you think you’ll be in?’

‘I don’t know. Probably Slytherin, if the rest of my family are anything to go by.’

‘Well there’s nothing wrong with that,’ Aziraphale replies, bracingly and not entirely convincingly. He hopes his automatic twinge of discomfort doesn’t show. ‘My grandfather was a Slytherin –’

‘Hmm,’ says Anthony again, apparently not really listening anymore. There is another long pause.

‘I don’t get on much with my family, either,’ Aziraphale admits quietly. Anthony’s eyes flash to his and away again. He doesn’t blink very much. ‘Well, it’s not that we don’t get _on_ , as such,’ Aziraphale elaborates, ‘it’s just that I don’t really think I want to do…what they want me to do. You know?’

‘Yeah,’ says Anthony, sincerely. ‘Yeah, I know.’

They lapse into silence once more. This time, Aziraphale watches the scenery and Anthony watches Aziraphale. After a while Aziraphale digs a book out from his trunk and is soon so absorbed in it that Anthony’s scrutiny goes entirely unnoticed. It’s nearly an hour before either of them speaks again.

‘So what about you, then?’

‘Hmm – what? Sorry?’ Aziraphale looks up, mildly irritated at the interruption, and frowns at the other wizard.

‘What House do you think you’ll be in?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Aziraphale replies, with half a glance towards his open book. ‘My Mum was in Gryffindor, my Dad was in Ravenclaw. I think I’d like Ravenclaw. Although Hufflepuff doesn’t look too bad, either, I suppose.’

‘Do you think it counts? What your family are?’

‘Possibly,’ says Aziraphale, ‘I’m not sure. There are exceptions, but I think it tends to go in families, doesn’t it? Although I don’t know where that leaves me, my family have been all over the place.’

‘Right,’ Anthony replies, sounding disappointed.

‘What’s so bad about your family anyway?’ Aziraphale regrets the question as soon as he asks it, and is actually grateful when Anthony refuses to answer.

‘It’s not important.’

Aziraphale tries to think of something else to say and can find nothing that doesn’t revolve around family or personal history that Anthony is obviously not going to discuss. He is tempted to just go back to his book, but Anthony is still watching him and it seems rude.

‘Well…what about Quidditch, then?’ Anthony asks.

‘I’ve never played,’ says Aziraphale truthfully, ‘I’ve never been interested.’

Anthony looks at once completely nonplussed and inexplicably pleased by this response.

‘But…it’s _Quidditch_. You can’t not like Quidditch. _Everyone_ likes Quidditch.’

‘Not me.’

‘How do you know if you haven’t tried?’

Aziraphale shrugs, ‘I just don’t see what all the fuss is about.’

‘Your parents _are_ magical, right? You’re not a muggle born?’

‘And so what if I was?’ Aziraphale demands, instantly on the defensive. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. Besides, I already told you, they’re Aurors. Of course they’re magical.’

‘So it would be some sort of excuse for not knowing about Quidditch, that’s what. I was just checking.’

‘I _know_ about Quidditch, I’m just not _interested_ in it.’

‘I’m pretty sure those things are mutually exclusive,’ Anthony assures him.

‘Oh so a bunch of people fly around trying to put some stupid ball through a hoop, what’s the big deal?’

‘ _What’s the big deal_? Have you ever even _seen_ a professional match?’ Anthony demands, looking equal parts incredulous and horrified.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Merlin, you haven’t _lived_ …’ Anthony breathes in disbelief.

‘I have other things to do,’ Aziraphale replies loftily.

‘I don’t believe it. I _can’t_ believe it. You’re winding me up, right?’

‘Not deliberately,’ says Aziraphale with a smirk, ‘but it seems to be working pretty well anyway.’

‘Right,’ says Anthony, ‘that’s it. As soon as we get to Hogwarts you are going to learn to appreciate the greatest sport that has ever existed, and I am going to teach you.’

‘What if I don’t want to?’

‘I don’t care, you don’t get a choice. I’m doing this for your own good.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Believe me, I do.’

Aziraphale grins without really knowing why, and Anthony follows suit knowing _exactly_ why. By the time the lady with the food trolley arrives they are deep in discussion about the relative merits of Portkeys versus Floo powder and shortly after she leaves Aziraphale finds himself defending his extensive collection of Chocolate Frog Cards (all of which are stored carefully at the bottom of his trunk). Anthony claims the whole practise is a ridiculous waste of time. Aziraphale bemoans getting _yet another_ Merlin card, and Anthony spends at least ten minutes teasing him for the look on his face when he finds that of Agnes Nutter.

Their good natured bickering takes a brief hiatus while they change into their robes. It picks straight back up again when Anthony makes a great show of getting his exactly straight then insisting on doing the same for Aziraphale, who manages to get them in about as much of a mess as possible, quite probably on purpose.

The silence doesn’t return until the train starts to slow at the end of the journey. Whatever they were talking about beforehand trails into insignificance as they both realise, simultaneously, that _they have arrived_.

‘This is it, then,’ says Aziraphale, making no move to stand up.

‘Looks like it,’ says Anthony.

‘Are you nervous?’

‘No, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’

They look at each other, look out the window, then at exactly the same time they each take a deep breath and stand up.

‘Let’s go,’ says Aziraphale.

00000

If Aziraphale thought the wait for the train was long, it was nothing compared to the journey across the lake. He can’t help leaning out as far forward as he can get in order to see the castle at the first possible opportunity, ignoring all of Anthony’s requests, and then demands, that he get out of the way and stop tipping the boat. Of the other two first years sharing the boat with them, one is silent and trembling and the other looks haughty and bored for the whole trip. None of them say very much.

Aziraphale gasps when the castle first comes into sight out of the looming darkness, the reflections of its many torch-lit windows glittering eerily on the lake below. He has never seen anything so obviously powerful, so clearly ancient – so beautiful. He knows _Hogwarts: A History_ practically by heart, but none of the descriptions it contains do justice to the immense building now before him. Anthony’s eyes – definitely golden in this light – are wide and darting all over the place as though trying to memorise every detail for an exam he will never have another chance to study for. The trembling boy looks more terrified than ever. Even the haughty girl seems reluctantly impressed.

The last part of their journey passes in a daze for Aziraphale; Anthony might say something to him at one point, and he might reply, but he couldn’t tell you what either of them said. The castle looms larger and larger in front of them – then they are getting off the boats and the enormous man acting as their guide leads them to a door which is opened by a stern-looking witch with black hair – they are inside the castle, still breathless with wonder…

As they wait to get called into the Great Hall for the Sorting, several murmured conversations break out. Aziraphale and Anthony don’t speak much but stand close together, drawing whatever comfort they can from the most familiar face present. One or two of the bolder looking students are casting looks of definite confusion in their direction. Anthony scowls in response.

‘What’s wrong?’ asks Aziraphale quietly, surprised to find his voice is shaking.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Anthony replies, looking slightly nauseous. Then, as though not sure he will get another chance, he quickly adds, ‘Listen – thanks. For the train, okay? Thanks for…talking, I suppose. Yeah.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Aziraphale says automatically, ‘Why –?’ but before he can finish the sentence, the stern-looking witch is back and calling them through. In silence the first years file into the Great Hall, and even those who are expecting it can’t help but gasp once more at the sight of the enchanted ceiling. Dark grey clouds are shifting restlessly across it, parting every so often to reveal slivers of the velvet sky above. Aziraphale doesn’t notice because he is too busy trying to take in everything around him but Anthony’s gaze is now fixed on the floor, determinedly not looking at anything but his own feet.

‘Good luck,’ Aziraphale whispers to Anthony when they finally come to a halt and the stern witch – Professor McGonagall, as she introduced herself before – explains the process of Sorting.

‘Yeah,’ Anthony sounds like he has something stuck in his throat. ‘You too,’ he shifts his gaze to battered hat in Professor McGonagall’s hand and keeps it there.

The first two students called are Ravenclaws; they join their new House table amidst deafening cheers. The next is a Slytherin, the fourth a Hufflepuff. Each time the newly Sorted young witch or wizard leaves the three legged stool with a look of profound relief on their face, stumbling or sauntering or jogging to join their housemates. Anthony’s eyes never leave the hat. Aziraphale puts it down to nerves and almost whispers something encouraging, but decides against it. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and then –

‘Crowley, Anthony!’

Aziraphale can’t help himself. His jaw drops open and he turns to Anthony with wide, shocked eyes, hardly willing to believe it. Anthony doesn’t look at him; he swallows audibly and makes his way with painful deliberation to the stool. Aziraphale hopes to catch his eye when he turns to take his seat, but Anthony closes them before the hat is dropped down and covers them completely.

Aziraphale stares. Crowley. _Crowley_. No wonder he didn’t offer a surname on the train. He must have recognised Aziraphale’s; the Stroulgers are almost as well known as the Crowleys, except for entirely the opposite reason. Had those students who had looked so confused at seeing them together _known_? Had they recognised them? A Stroulger and a Crowley…one from a family composed almost entirely of Aurors, the other with a family whose deep association with the Dark Arts is an open secret throughout the entire wizarding community. And yet Anthony had seemed so…reasonable. He hadn’t seemed like the son of a Death Eater. He hadn’t…

Aziraphale finds himself crossing his fingers in his pockets, praying for anything, _anything_ but Slytherin. He tells himself it is for Anthony’s sake; he had seemed genuinely distressed at the idea on the train, but it is at least partly for himself. If Anthony is in Slytherin, just like the rest of his family, does that mean he is like them in other respects, too? But not all Slytherins are Death Eaters…Aziraphale knows at least two who are Aurors…and yet the overwhelming majority of Death Eaters _are_ Slytherins, and if that’s the way Anthony’s family is…

00000

Anthony’s eyes are tightly closed beneath the brim of the Sorting Hat. He grips the stool so hard his fingers hurt, and tries not to think. He feels sick. He can practically sense Aziraphale’s disappointed gaze. Their almost-friendship had been nice for a while, but he can only assume it’s over now. No matter where he gets Sorted, Aziraphale is bound to have recognised his surname… _it tends to go in families, doesn’t it?_

He tries to ignore the hat’s muttered remarks, tries to make his mind go blank. He knows he should hope for Slytherin, for the sake of peace with his family if nothing else, but does he _want_ peace with them? Honestly, no, he wants nothing to do with them. Is proving a point worth the reaction he is bound to get if he dares to be Sorted anywhere else? Where else _could_ he go? Where else would accept him? Surely not Hufflepuff, he’d never be forgiven for that, and he knows he is not cut out for Ravenclaw…but that only leaves Gryffindor, which seems almost equally unlikely…he doesn’t feel very brave right now. None of them would seem so bad if Aziraphale was there too though, he had seemed decent – will he _still_ , if Anthony is a Slytherin?

It takes over five minutes for the hat to reach its decision. When it does, the Gryffindor table explodes with cheers and Anthony can barely breathe for shock. His hand is shaking as he reaches up to take off the hat, and his legs are so weak he nearly falls over when he stands up. His eyes flicker between the Slytherin table – where his cousins are wearing twin looks of absolute fury – and Aziraphale, whose wide grin is the only thing that gives Anthony the strength to make it to his new House table without collapsing. He slumps exhaustedly onto the bench and is slapped on the back in welcome by a beaming seventh year boy who is vaguely familiar to him, still speechless with a roiling cocktail of fear and relief.

Aziraphale’s shoulders sag as he lets out an enormous sigh of relief and he doesn’t bother trying to hide the broad grin that spreads across his face the instant the hat calls out its decision. He only just manages to stop himself joining the Gryffindors’ celebrations, and makes a point of ignoring the sudden upswing of speculative muttering that sweeps across the Great Hall. Even several of the teachers raise their eyebrows, although Professor McGonagall looks about as pleased as Aziraphale imagines she ever does. Dumbledore looks thoughtful and his gaze seems to flicker briefly towards someone else at the Gryffindor table, but Aziraphale isn’t quick enough to see who. He tries to concentrate on the rest of the Sorting, but his attention keeps wandering. By the time his own name is called, he is so deep in thought that he doesn’t hear it and has to be prodded forwards by his neighbour, to scattered laughter. He blushes furiously but makes it to the stool without incident.

The hat takes almost as long to decide for him as it did for Anthony. Mostly it deliberates between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and once it even seems (to Aziraphale’s poorly disguised horror) to whisper _Slytherin_ , as though simply to test his reaction. The moment it finally calls out ‘GRYFFINDOR’ for the entire school to hear, Aziraphale pulls the hat off and hands it quickly to Professor McGonagall, hurrying towards his new House table so fast he trips halfway there. The tall black haired seventh year next to Anthony regards the two of them with raised eyebrows for a moment, then smiles as he moves aside to make room.

‘Hey,’ whispers Aziraphale, glancing around as the haughty girl from their shared boat is sorted into Ravenclaw. ‘Congratulations.’

Anthony looks startled and more than a little dazed, but pleased nevertheless.

‘Thanks,’ he whispers back, and then opens his mouth to say something more but – catching Professor McGonagall’s stern gaze fixed on the two of them – closes it again.

Ten minutes later the Sorting comes to an end as ‘Wilde, Timothy’ is welcomed into Hufflepuff. Dumbledore makes a brief announcement that Anthony barely listens to, and the feast begins.

‘What were you going to say?’ Aziraphale asks, reaching across the table for the potatoes.

‘What? Oh. I just…You’re okay with this?’

‘With what?’

‘Me. My family. I saw the look on your face, when – I mean, your parents are Aurors and mine are…well…not, so…you know.’

‘I’m not interested in getting involved in their war,’ says Aziraphale, truthfully, although he would be lying if he said he didn’t have _any_ reservations, and a determined little voice at the back of his mind is already worrying at him over what his parents will say when they find out. Nothing good, he’d wager.

‘I’m not like them,’ Anthony explains quickly, suddenly feeling the need to make sure Aziraphale knows this. ‘I mean – I don’t care if – you know, muggle-borns and – it doesn’t matter.’

‘Good,’ says Aziraphale. ‘I mean – I know.’

‘You know what? That it doesn’t matter or that I don’t care about it?’

‘Both. I wouldn’t be talking to you otherwise.’

‘Oh. Thanks. I think.’

‘Aren’t they going to be angry with you, though?’

‘Probably,’ Anthony shrugs and fails utterly at looking nonchalant. Aziraphale decides to change the subject.

‘So what do you think our first lesson will be?’

00000

It proves surprisingly easy for the two boys to talk to one another even knowing each other’s backgrounds. In fact, if anything their conversation is more relaxed than it was on the train – Anthony is definitely visibly happier, and after a while he even forgets to keep glancing towards the Slytherin table to check his cousins’ reactions. Aziraphale could swear he sees their neighbouring seventh year nudge his friend and point to them, muttering something that makes the other boy look very thoughtful, but he doesn’t mention it.

The feast passes in a blur of chatter and the best food either of them have ever encountered, and it seems before very long at all they are full to bursting and pleasantly exhausted. By the time the plates are at last clear again and the red haired seventh year from the train (who is apparently Head Girl) is calling for them to follow her, they are both too tired to do much other than obey automatically. They make little more than half-hearted efforts to memorise the way to their new dormitory; Anthony especially seems to be struggling to remain upright. They are given the password (“kraken”) and led into a warm, circular common room bedecked in red, then directed through and up another staircase, where they collapse with barely another word into soft four poster beds, and fall quickly to sleep.

00000

Anthony wakes slowly the next morning. He doesn’t open his eyes straight away.

The first thing he registers is that he is very warm and very comfortable, and he would quite like to stay wherever he is for at least a week, or possibly forever. He breathes deeply and focuses on listening. He can hear birdsong, so it must be past dawn, but no movement from the other boys, so it must still be fairly early.

Then it hits him exactly _where_ he is and _why_ , and his eyes snap open against his will.

The canopy above him is bright crimson. So are the sheets, and the curtains surrounding his bed in a cocoon of warmth.

Crimson. Gryffindor. He is in Gryffindor. This is the Gryffindor first year boys’ dormitory. He was sorted into _Gryffindor_.

It doesn’t seem real.

He tries replaying his memories of the previous day, searching for some surreal quality to them that would mark the events as dreams…but there is none.

He was woken up two hours before catching the train, by his mother. He doesn’t bother trying to remember what she’d said to him before he’d left; he hadn’t really been paying attention.

He deliberately sat in the last compartment to avoid Hastur and Ligur. Another boy had joined him later. A boy called Aziraphale, whose parents were two of the most famous Aurors in the country. He had avoided revealing his surname. They had got along. Aziraphale had claimed not to like Quidditch. That seems to be evidence for it being real – Anthony is sure he wouldn’t have imagined _that_ detail.

Then the Sorting. Aziraphale had been shocked to find out his surname – Anthony wonders how long it will take him to forget the look on his new friend’s face at that realisation. The hat had taken an absolute age to place him. Anthony had been somehow simultaneously praying for Slytherin and desperate for somewhere – anywhere – else.

And it had chosen Gryffindor.  Of all the options available – well, of all _four_ options – why Gryffindor?

 _You’ll see_ , the hat had said, and refused to say anything more. Would he, though? When? How long would it take? What was his _family_ going to say? Hastur and Ligur had looked furious, and Anthony doesn’t doubt they have already sent owls home…

He wonders how many of the other students recognised his name. How many of those outside Slytherin will actually accept him. Will his family connections have made enemies of all those that his Sorting failed to?

Then again…Aziraphale is in Gryffindor, too. Aziraphale had joined him at the table, had talked to him all the way through the feast…Dare he hope…?

Struggling to pull his thoughts into some sort of order, Anthony listens until he hears one of the other boys start moving about. Then something very strange happens.

His concern starts leaking away, quickly replaced by a growing surge of excitement and wonder.

 _He’s at Hogwarts_.

Finally, _finally_ , he is here, and he is not in Slytherin. He is not like his family, he does not _want_ to be like them – for the first time in his life he is away from them. He has a friend not vetted by either of his parents, a friend they would likely forbid him from having if they found out…He is going to be able to cast spells all of his own, and _fly_ – maybe next year he can try out for the Quidditch team – maybe by then he’ll have Aziraphale convinced to try the sport, too…

His anticipation soon becomes too strong to stay still. He sits up, wide awake by now and suddenly full of energy, and pulls back the curtains of the four poster bed. He grins at the sight of the dormitory as he gets to his feet and just stands for a moment, turning on the spot in a vain effort to take it all in and make himself believe it.

Yes. He thinks he could get used to this.

Still grinning, he grabs a pillow and throws it at Aziraphale’s bed.

‘Wake up,’ he says loudly, ‘I want breakfast.’

‘Go get some then,’ groans Aziraphale from behind his own drawn curtains, from the sound of it rolling over so he is facing away from Anthony. ‘I’m staying here.’

‘You’ll be late,’ Anthony warns in a sing song voice, starting to get dressed. His hands are remarkably steady, for all he feels like his excitement might be about to shake him to pieces. His heart is thundering so rapidly he is beginning to feel light headed.

‘Go away.’

‘Well, if you say so. I’m not the one who’ll miss getting given a timetable, after all…’

Aziraphale lurches up and pulls his curtains aside sharply, still bleary eyed with sleep.

‘What time is it?’

‘Time for you to get dressed,’

‘You sound like my Mum,’ Aziraphale grumbles, shuffling towards the end of his bed to retrieve his robes.

‘Could be worse,’ Anthony muses, settling his pointed hat onto his head at a rakish angle. ‘I could sound like _my_ Mum. Now come on, I’m hungry.’

Despite Aziraphale’s continued protests, fifteen minutes later they enter the Great Hall together and make straight for the Gryffindor table. Anthony is doing a poor job of looking sympathetic to Aziraphale’s tiredness.

‘I was up at five o’clock yesterday,’ Aziraphale complains, pulling a bowl of porridge towards himself and prodding it experimentally.

‘That’s your own fault. What on earth did you do that for?’

‘I have no idea. You’re cheerful today.’

‘How do you know I’m not usually like this?’

‘You weren’t yesterday.’

Anthony shrugs. ‘New beginnings and all,’ he says, piling his plate high with bacon, eggs, and toast. Aziraphale mumbles something incoherent and concentrates on eating. By the time Professor McGonagall arrives with the timetables, he is at last fully awake.

‘Ooh, Potions first,’ he says, scanning the list. Anthony is still shovelling eggs into his mouth, and has his own timetable propped up against the pumpkin juice. ‘And Transfiguration…what do you think we’ll be working on?’

‘No idea,’ says Anthony, ‘when’s the first Flying lesson?’

‘Is that _all_ you care about?’

‘Oh, Monday, excellent!’ Anthony exclaims, ignoring him.

‘We haven’t got Charms until Tuesday though…’

‘Herbology this afternoon, look!’

‘Defence is on Monday, too, that should be interesting.’

‘I thought you weren’t interested in fighting?’ Anthony challenges, finally responding to Aziraphale’s actual words rather than carrying on an almost entirely separate conversation.

‘I said I wasn’t interested in my parents’ war,’ Aziraphale replies distractedly. ‘There are other ways of fighting than the ones they choose. I don’t want to be an _Auror_ , but don’t you think it would be good to know how to defend ourselves, at least?’

‘Yes, Anthony, wouldn’t that be interesting?’ Both boys freeze at the sound of the new voice, which only Anthony recognises. His stomach drops.

‘Hello, Hastur,’ he says carefully, twisting around on the bench to look up at his cousins; Hastur, the taller of the two, is in fifth year and Ligur, the shorter, in fourth.

‘So who’s your friend? Thinking of joining the Aurors together when you leave school?’

‘This is Aziraphale. And no,’ Anthony replies, shooting Aziraphale a look of warning. He’d known this would happen before too long, but he had hoped to avoid it for a while yet.

‘He is a wizard, I take it?’ Hastur does not look at Aziraphale; he barely acknowledges his presence at all.

‘No, he’s a muggle on an exchange trip. Of _course_ he’s a wizard, you idiot.’

‘You know perfectly well what I meant. Who are his family? Do we know them?’

‘Probably,’ Anthony hedges. It’s true at least, if not in the way Hastur is talking about.

‘ _Well_?’

‘Well _what_?’

‘Oh for – you,’ Hastur finally turns and speaks to Aziraphale directly. ‘What’s your last name?’

There is no good answer to this question, and for a moment Aziraphale is stuck. He could invent a name, but he’d soon be found out, or they’d just take him for a muggle born, which could be worse. In the end he decides that if there’s going to be trouble either way, it might as well be because of the truth.

‘Stroulger,’ he says. Then, because he thinks it would be better to get it over with quickly, ‘Yes, as in the Aurors.’

Hastur and Ligur both look momentarily too stunned to speak. Then –

‘Did you know about this?’ demands Ligur, taking a furious step forwards.

‘Yes,’ Anthony admits reluctantly.

‘You know his family are the biggest bunch of blood traitors since the Weasley mess?’ Hastur cuts in, holding up one hand to keep Ligur back.

‘If you say so,’ Anthony glances towards the staff table, but breakfast is nearly over and it is almost empty. His hand starts inching towards his wand; he might not have been taught any spells properly yet, but he’s been around duelling enough that he hopes he’s picked up a few things at least. Aziraphale is trying desperately to think of something to say to defuse the situation, but is drawing a blank. He has not yet drawn his wand, but he will if he needs to. Not that he expects either of them would be able to do much yet other than maybe poke their aggressors in the eye.

‘You realise your parents are going to have to hear about this?’

‘I’d expect nothing less,’ says Anthony tersely.

‘I doubt they will be pleased.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘Are you being _deliberately_ dense?’ Hastur snaps. Anthony opens his mouth to reply, but is saved the trouble by another voice which interrupts before he has the chance to speak.

‘What’s going on here?’ Anthony could faint with relief at the sound. He lets his hand fall away from his wand and sees Aziraphale do the same as the Head Girl approaches with her hands on her hips, frowning sternly at the Slytherins, who actually take a step back.

‘Nothing,’ Ligur says quickly,

‘Just having a little chat with our cousin here,’ Hastur puts in, with an unconvincing smile.

‘Yes, well, you should all be on your way to class. You’re going to be late.’

‘Of course,’ says Hastur, in the sort of silky voice that is more threatening by far than any sneer. ‘Catch you later, Anthony.’

The moment they have both turned their backs, Anthony lets out an enormous sigh of relief and buries his head in his hands.

‘Are you okay?’ asks the girl, her tone suddenly much more gentle.

‘Yeah,’ says Anthony weakly, ‘we’re fine. Thanks for that.’

‘Were they hassling you?’

‘It’s nothing. Family stuff.’

‘Hmm,’ she looks doubtful. ‘Listen, if they give you trouble, you need to tell someone, okay? Don’t land yourselves in detention trying to sort it out alone. Go to a teacher, or a Prefect. Or me and James – he’s Head Boy. I’m Lily, by the way. And you really _should_ be heading to lessons now. Do you know the way?’

‘We have Potions first,’ Aziraphale replies, ‘that’s in the dungeons, right?’

‘That’s right. Just ask someone if you get lost – because I promise you, you will get lost at least once. It happens to everyone. And good luck, okay?’

‘Thank you,’ says Aziraphale, getting to his feet and swinging his bag over his shoulder.

‘Yeah,’ says Anthony quietly, following suit. ‘Thanks again.’

‘No problem,’ Lily smiles, ‘see you around.’

‘Well,’ says Anthony with forced casualness, setting off towards the doors. ‘That could have been worse.’

Aziraphale frowns as he hurries to catch up. ‘ _Are_ you okay?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine.’

‘If this is going to get you into trouble –’

‘I’m in _Gryffindor_. I’m already in about as much trouble as possible. Unless _you_ –’

‘No!’ Aziraphale interrupts quickly, guiltily shoving down the niggling doubts that the encounter has caused, ‘Not at all.’

‘Good. So…which way is it to the dungeons?’

00000

Potions is either an unmitigated disaster or a roaring success, depending on your point of view. Aziraphale’s potion is genuinely abysmal, and Anthony’s is only slightly better. Aziraphale thinks this is highly unfair, because Anthony was the one who spent the entire lesson trying to distract him, but he still can’t find it in himself to be truly annoyed, because it was quite probably the most fun he has ever had in his life. He seriously considers the possibility that he might have broken a rib from laughing so hard. Professor Slughorn reprimands them several times, which only results in Anthony doing an uncannily accurate impression the moment his back is turned, which sets Aziraphale into yet another fit of giggles – it’s a miracle, really, that they leave the lesson an hour later without so much as a single lost point.

Neither of them notice – or if they do, neither of them acknowledge – the increasing number of curious and disapproving looks from their classmates, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff alike. They leave the dungeons in high spirits, heads together, still talking nineteen to the dozen and hardly paying attention to which direction they are headed in. They simply follow the flow of the crowd until they reach the Entrance Hall once more, and have to pause to find their bearings.

Anthony looks around, blinking as though only just realising they are no longer in Slughorn’s classroom. ‘So what have we got next?’

‘Err…Transfiguration, I th – _oh_!’ he stumbles forward as someone pushes roughly past him and quickly rights himself, glancing automatically over his shoulder to see who it was. He doesn’t see Anthony’s face darken, or he might be expecting what happens next.

‘ _Traitor_ ,’ someone hisses furiously as they pass the two first years, and Aziraphale might have assumed it was aimed at someone else, or that he misheard, if not for the fact that every face is suddenly, conspicuously, turned away from them.

‘What –’ he begins, but Anthony shakes his head quickly.

‘Leave it,’ he says, ‘come on, just leave it – Transfiguration, you said, right?’

‘Anthony –’ but Anthony isn’t listening. He grabs Aziraphale’s wrist and pulls him to the side, ducking and twisting to get around the mass of other students, who all seem – whether by accident or design – to be arranged precisely to make their escape as difficult as possible without drawing the attention of a teacher.

‘This way, come on, just follow me –’ Aziraphale can barely hear Anthony’s constant rush of instructions, but he obediently follows the direction the other boy pulls him in. He tries (and fails multiple times) not to step on anyone’s feet, squeaking out apologies no one seems to notice and almost dropping his bag – or having it pulled from him, he’s not sure.

They don’t slow down until they reach the next floor, where the corridor is slightly quieter, and don’t stop until they are outside the Transfiguration classroom and lining up to wait for Professor McGonagall. Anthony releases Aziraphale’s wrist and avoids his eyes.

‘What was that about?’ Aziraphale asks with an edge of coldness to his voice that makes Anthony’s chest tighten painfully.

‘Can’t you guess?’ Anthony’s laugh is quiet and bitter. He still doesn’t look at Aziraphale.

‘You seemed to be expecting it.’

‘You weren’t?’

‘Apparently I’ve grown up in a more tolerant environment than you.’ It comes out snappier than Aziraphale intends it to, and he immediately feels guilty.

‘Well good for you,’ Anthony replies. ‘I –’

At that moment the bell rings and the door to the classroom swings open to reveal the tall, slightly forbidding figure of Professor McGonagall. She only has to raise her eyebrows for silence to fall, and then steps aside to allow the first years to file past her towards their desks.

00000

‘What were you going to say?’ whispers Aziraphale twenty minutes later, after McGonagall has given them a brief introductory lecture and distributed matches throughout the room. Anthony prods his experimentally with his wand and mumbles the words of the spell, but nothing happens.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Anthony.

‘I’m sorry I snapped.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I really –’ Aziraphale insists.

‘I said _forget it_. I’m trying to concentrate.’

‘That’s rich, after last lesson –’

‘Shut up, Aziraphale.’

‘I’m just –’

‘I said _shut up_!’ Several heads – including Professor McGonagall’s – turn in their direction at this outburst.

‘Is something the matter, Mr Crowley?’ she asks coolly.

‘No, Professor.’

‘Perhaps you would work more effectively if you were to sit away from Mr Stroulger?’

Anthony is staring at the desk, trying desperately not to notice the heat rising in his cheeks.

‘Sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again.’

‘Make sure that it doesn’t.’

He does not see the frown of concern on her face, but Aziraphale does. It only makes him feel worse.

00000

At the end of the lesson Anthony packs up his things and makes for the door without waiting for Aziraphale, who has to hurry to catch him.

‘I really am sorry,’ he tries. Anthony doesn’t reply. His back is stiff and he walks quickly enough that Aziraphale has to practically jog to keep up. ‘I only meant –’

‘I know what you meant. It was the truth.’

‘That doesn’t mean – well, I – Anthony, where are you going? It’s lunchtime.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘But –’

‘I’ll see you in Herbology.’

He leaves Aziraphale in the middle of the corridor, staring after him without the faintest idea what to say to make things okay again.

Anthony makes it to the Gryffindor common room without incident, largely by pretending to be deaf and blind to the mutterings and suspicious looks that he knows follow him the entire journey.

The common room itself is, mercifully, empty, but he doesn’t stop until he reaches his dormitory, throwing his bag to the floor and collapsing backwards onto his bed. He glares unseeingly at the red canvas above him.

To think, this morning he had been so hopeful. Just a few hours ago he had looked up at that crimson fabric and felt – _right_. Felt at home, felt excited and happy and any number of things that he is now beginning to think were foolish, childish dreams designed only to make reality even harsher by comparison.

Of course he couldn’t be friends with Aziraphale. What does it matter that he is in Gryffindor? What does it matter that he is as unlike his family as it is possible to be? What does _any_ of what he _wants_ matter? When has it ever? Clearly all of his decisions have been made long ago, and no one has ever consulted him on them. Why would they? He’s a Crowley. Obviously that means he is untrustworthy. At _best_.

A day. It hasn’t even lasted a _day_ before total strangers are flinging insults at him in the corridors, before he has seen the flash of unmistakable doubt in Aziraphale’s eyes.

He supposes he could be overreacting, supposes that no one has really had a chance yet to make up their minds. They don’t _know_ him, he hasn’t had time to prove himself yet – of course all they will see is his name, and let their prejudices and imaginations fill in the rest. Or even, worse yet, their parents’ prejudices, preached as fact and stamped in without room for questioning their entire lives. And yet – doesn’t that make it worse? That they are all judging him without waiting for even a _suggestion_ of proof?

He wonders briefly if he will be able to make any headway with the muggle-borns, who have grown up away from all of this, to whom his family name is as unfamiliar as any other. Then he almost laughs at his own absurdity. They will be warned soon enough, and then even – perhaps especially –they will turn their backs on him.

He turns over and buries his face in his pillow. Maybe he _should_ have asked for Slytherin. At least then he might have had the illusion of allies.

He isn’t sure how long it is before a light tap at the door brings him back to his surroundings.

‘Anthony?’ calls a nervous voice. He twists his head to the side and frowns at the figure in the doorway. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’ Aziraphale, carrying a plate piled high with sandwiches and carefully not mentioning the redness of Anthony’s eyes, sits on the end of his friend’s bed and looks at his hands.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Do you?’ Anthony demands.

‘Yes.’

‘Amaze me, then.’

‘Have a sandwich,’ Aziraphale offers calmly.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I’ll talk if you’ll eat. Have a sandwich.’

‘What if I don’t want you to talk?’ Anthony objects.

‘Then I’ll leave, and I’ll take the sandwiches with me.’

For several long moments, Anthony glares at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale glares right back, daring him to refuse. Eventually, Anthony sits up and takes a sandwich. Aziraphale waits until he has taken a bite before continuing.

‘I know what you’re thinking, and I think you’re being terribly over-dramatic.’

‘Right. Of course.’

‘You need to give them a chance.’

‘Give _who_ a chance?’

‘Them,’ says Aziraphale, waving his hand vaguely enough that he seems to be encompassing the entire world. ‘They don’t know you yet. You can’t blame them –’

‘If you’re about to tell me that I can’t blame them for assuming I’m – I’m a _Death Eater_ or something just because my name’s Crowley, you can get out now. And _yes_ , take the bloody sandwiches with you.’

‘I just mean –’

‘I know what you mean, and I’m not interested. I shouldn’t have to prove myself to them, and I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you. So thanks, but no thanks.’

‘You _don’t_ have to prove yourself to me.’

‘Really?’ asks Anthony sceptically, ‘not even a little bit? There’s not even a _tiny_ bit of you that looks at me and thinks “Crowley” before you think “Anthony”? You don’t know me yet either, you know.’

Aziraphale opens his mouth to deny it but stops before any words come out. Anthony’s shoulders sag with disappointment. He isn’t surprised, but he hadn’t expected it to hurt quite this much to have his suspicions confirmed.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Aziraphale quietly. Anthony shrugs.

‘Thanks for being honest.’

‘I am trying not to. Think “Crowley”, I mean. Really.’

‘You can’t help it. No one can, apparently.’

‘Well they _should_ ,’ Aziraphale snaps. Startled by his vehemence, Anthony looks up. ‘They should give you a chance. They gave Sirius Black a chance, didn’t they? He seems popular enough, and his family are –’

‘Almost as bad as mine?’ Anthony actually manages to smirk, and it isn’t even forced. Mostly. ‘It’s okay, you can say it.’

‘Well – yes, that. And _he’s_ in Gryffindor – and friends with James Potter, from what I can gather, and no one seems to have a problem with it –’

‘They are seventh years,’ says Anthony reasonably. ‘I don’t think people dare object.’

‘You’d think they’d have _learnt_ –’

‘When do “people” ever learn?’

Aziraphale heaves an enormous sigh and flops backwards across the bed, almost upsetting the plate of sandwiches still in his lap, and spreading his arms wide in an unmistakable expression of defeat.

‘Do you think it’ll always be like this?’

‘Not for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As soon as you stop hanging around with me, they’ll leave you alone. They probably think I’m jinxing you or something as it is.’

‘You – don’t want to be friends?’ Aziraphale asks tentatively, hoping against hope that it isn’t true.

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘What did you mean then?’

‘Oh for Merlin’s sake, Aziraphale, _I’m_ the one they have a problem with. You can get out of it Scott-free if you just tow the party line and avoid me like the plague. They’ll welcome you with open arms. You’re a Stroulger.’ He says this last with the bare minimum of bitterness, but cannot keep it out of his voice altogether.

‘What if I don’t want to avoid you?’ Aziraphale challenges.

‘Then you’re an idiot.’ Anthony replies with certainty. He is glad Aziraphale can’t see his face – can’t see how hard he is having to struggle against the resurfacing hope that is gradually making its way onto his face in the form of an absolutely radiant grin.

‘So be it,’ says Aziraphale, with the air of someone resigning themselves to a grim fate but with a smile that Anthony can actually _hear_. There are several moments of increasingly awkward silence before Anthony speaks again.

‘We’re going to be late for Herbology.’

‘Who are we with?’ Aziraphale asks, pulling himself laboriously to his feet and scooping his bag from the floor – the sandwiches lie forgotten on Anthony’s bed.

‘The Slytherins.’

They both groan, but somehow the prospect does not seem as daunting as it might have an hour ago, now that their friendship has been openly confirmed. Aziraphale bites his lips thoughtfully as they make for the door.

‘You know, we _could_ always…’

‘What?’

‘Ask him for advice.’

‘Who?’

‘Sirius Black.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> By the way - and this applies to the whole series - if you happen to notice a name from or reference to another fandom...chances are yes, it was deliberate. I can't help myself. But no, this will not be a crossover between anything but Harry Potter and Good Omens.
> 
> I know this is being written/uploaded in an odd way, but the next few installments will take place _between_ this and Saturday. Saturday will make perfect sense without them so it'll be fine to read, just bear in mind it doesn't take place directly after this!


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